


Dirt

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco isn't sure exactly what they are or can be, but he knows what he wants them to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kedavranox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedavranox/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
> 
> Gift for Kedavranox.

They’re wedged between the walls of the greenhouse and castle, and Draco’s wedged between Neville and the glass. He can hear the thick, spiked vines on the other side scratching to get to him, and the large, overreaching plants shroud them from the path. They’re completely blocked from the view of anyone who doesn’t know about this nook—anyone but Neville. The sunlight still slips down on them from overhead, orange against the clear top of the greenhouse. Neville’s silhouetted in the light—when he pulls back, he glows like an angel.

He murmurs, “We should get back soon,” with a final peck to Draco’s lips. Draco has his arms tightly wrapped around Neville’s shoulders; he doesn’t accept that. He tugs Neville into another fierce kiss, forcing his tongue inside. Neville opens for him but doesn’t take it long. This time, he shoves Draco’s shoulders against the wall as he goes, repeating, “We have class.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Draco half hisses, half whines. He doesn’t like being left for anything. Eighth year is a joke to him, anyway—NEWTs won’t replace his Dark Mark. No one will hire him, and no one will work with him. And he doesn’t want to think about that now, not when he’s here with Neville. It’s supposed to be a private, intermittent time, and thirty minutes between classes isn’t enough. He fists his own fingers in Neville’s robes as he wills Neville to stay.

Neville holds firm: a shadow of the quivering child he used to be. Now his tone is commanding, no matter how gentle he tries to make it, as he says, “Look, if I want to be an Auror, I really can’t afford to fail Potions. We have to go.”

“So be a Herbologist,” Draco sneers. Because he doesn’t go down easy. The thought of fucking an Auror sort of makes his stomach churn anyway; he could never bring Neville home to meet his parents. (Even if Neville is a pureblood, and incredibly handsome, and surprisingly skilled and a wonderful ‘boyfriend.’) Draco doesn’t do desperation though, and when Neville finally releases his shoulders, he refuses to lunge forward like he wants to. “They don’t need Potions.” 

A smile twitches on Neville’s lips. “...They do too, actually. It’s important to be able to make antidotes if you’re going to work with poisonous plants.”

“Pfft,” Draco scoffs, rolling his eyes as if he knew that and it still doesn’t matter. “That’s what you have me for.” Because Draco happens to be excellent at Potions, and he can afford to be a few minutes late. He can still taste _Neville_ on the back of his tongue, and he’d make out all day if he could. He’d do more too, of course—he’d drag Neville down into the dirt and hide with him here, away from the world. He tries to make that desire clear in his eyes—that often works.

Today, Neville says quietly, “...I have you _here._ ” And the way he says it makes it sound like everything will change the minute they leave—the minute they graduate and Hogwarts is a memory. When they grow up and move on, get separate lives and drift apart. The single word puts an iceberg in Draco’s stomach, and his eyebrows knit together before he can stop himself.

Then he shakes his head and schools his features back to neutrality, despite wanting to demand to know what that’s supposed to mean. That they’re not serious? That Draco’s just a casual fuck, now that the war’s knocked him down several pegs and no one else will talk to him? Draco can’t even wonder if they’re just really friends, because they’re hardly friends at all.

They’re quick, stolen, fleeting moments like this, behind trees and in the depths of abandoned corridors. They’re fumbling fingers and too many feelings, sharing tragedies and masking pain with pleasure. They’re good conversation, sometimes, and help with different subjects, and occasionally just shared silence. They’re something strange and new that Draco would’ve never dreamed of, what seems so many years ago, back before the war changed _everything._

Neville reaches out for Draco’s hand as if to apologize. He squeezes it in reassurance, but Draco needs more than a hand squeeze.

But he takes it, because he can’t beg for Neville Longbottom. He’s still a Malfoy, even if that doesn’t mean anything anymore.

He follows Neville back through the wild foliage, down the narrow alley of glass and brick. At the end of it, Draco holds Neville back, drawling hollowly and without making eye contact, “You go first. ...We probably shouldn’t be seen together.” (Because heaven forbid a _Slytherin_ fuck a _Gryffindor_ , and Draco has too few friends left to challenge them.)

Neville nods and kisses his cheek before disappearing through the leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

The very first time they were paired together, Neville spilled their potion all over the classroom, fog oozing into every corner. Draco did nothing wrong and still got detention: every Thursday night for four months. Potter got over the angry boils the potion gave him anyway, and despite his accusations, it was _not_ on purpose. Draco’s inordinately sure that if Potter weren’t the main victim, Draco would’ve been done ages ago.

As it is, he’s pulling his book out of his bag, Neville patiently waiting for instructions. They get through these times by Draco watching his every move. The extra skill and confidence Neville’s gained do _not_ extend to his Potions performance. Draco collects the first round of ingredients and Slughorn leaves. Draco hands Neville a bowl of Wiggentree bark to cut and begins to add the pre-prepared, bottled liquid ingredients, carefully eyeing the textbook.

“Sorry about earlier,” Neville mumbles as he chops. Draco glances up, wondering if he was still wearing the sneer that’s lingered on him most of the day. Neville doesn’t have anything to apologize for, really, but he does anyway. It’s one of the (many) things Draco loves about him; Draco almost always wins, even when he’s wrong.

He sniffs and says haughtily, “It’s fine,” even though it isn’t. Neville glances up at him; Draco tries to look away. He can practically feel Neville’s gaze lingering, and as he begins to stir counter-clockwise, he tries, “We should get away later.” Because he’s still upset that he didn’t get everything he wanted this morning, and Draco still _wants_ so much.

He wants Neville, and Neville nods, muttering, “Yeah.” He’s too busy looking at Draco to pay attention to what he’s doing—a second later, he winces audibly in pain, jerking his hand off the table. Draco grabs it to examine the cut—he’s sliced the tip of his finger.

Draco instinctually pulls it to his mouth, kissing the wound. His tongue darts out to catch the blood, and his lips softly close around it. Neville stares at him, transfixed, and doesn’t pull away. Draco holds Neville’s finger there as he digs around in his robes, pulling out a wand. Then he pulls away and taps the cut—it sews quickly back together.

Neville cringes but takes it. He says, “Thanks,” and studies it—good as new.

He goes back to cutting, and Draco, because he’s Draco, insensitively sniffs, “Pay attention this time.”

Neville, because he’s wonderful and accepting and every sturdy thing Draco could ever want, replies laughingly, “I’ll try.”

Draco adds, “I mean it. Just because I’m utterly gorgeous and irresistible doesn’t mean you can let yourself get distracted to the point of injuring yourself. We simply won’t work if I’m that dangerous to you..” ...Then he blushes hotly at what he just said, like he always does when one of them directly references _being together._

Because he doesn’t really know how they _are_ together. It just sort of happened, oddly natural and wonderfully easy. Neville just put up with him enough, and circumstance brought them closer, and Neville’s just too sweet, and caring, and warm, and grounded, and _sexy as fuck_ to resist. Suddenly the Gryffindor tie isn’t such a turn off, and he isn’t a pushover any more and he doesn’t stutter. He’s brave and he’s strong, and the thought of him not being there when Draco needs him is enough to make Draco _furious._

And Draco doesn’t at all know how to say any of that. Neville grins at him fondly and continues chopping bark up, as though nothing ever happened. “I suppose you don’t want to come to Gryffindor. ...I could probably sneak down to Slytherin, what time do you want to do?”

“Greenhouse Four at... ten o’clock,” Draco arbitrarily decides. He doesn’t even address the mention of their respective dormitories until Neville looks up at him. Draco tries to pretend like he’s pouring over the recipe, and he walks around Neville to approach the supply cabinet, pulling out crushed Alihotsy leaves and newt fingers.

When he returns, Neville’s eyes are still following him, and Neville muses, “Greenhouse Four?”

“Greenhouse Four,” Draco repeats. He adds the leaves in and carefully switches the direction of his stirring, waiting to add the newt fingers until after the bark. He mutters, “Stop that,” for a moment, and reaches out to take some of the bark that Neville moves the knife away from.

He drops a few slivers in and resumes stirring. Neville asks quietly, “And I can’t come to Slytherin because... you don’t want to be seen with me?”

Draco puts down the jar of newt fingers, sighing. He looks up at Neville as sternly as he can manage, drawling, “If you want to be an Auror, you shouldn’t be seen sneaking around with Death Eaters. It’s that simple.”

“You’ve been cleared,” Neville says, like it’s nothing. 

Draco hollowly says, “I have the Dark Mark.”

Neville, just as firmly, says, “I don’t care.”

Draco’s insides are a warm, fuzzy mess, and he shakes his head as he repeats, looking aside, “Just... just meet me by the greenhouse.”


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Neville gets there, Draco’s on him. He’s been practically shaking with the wait, fingers clenched tight in his pockets and feet shifting nervously. Neville carries the set of keys that comes with being the top Herbology student—he often stops by to ‘check on the plants.’ Professor Sprout trusts him too much. _Draco_ trusts him too much. Draco trusts Neville with everything he is, and the more he feels that way, the more it bothers him—the more this ephemeral, fleeting thing seems too important for him to hold onto.

Neville kisses him desperately the second they’re together, pressing him back into the glass wall. They’re buried away in the corner, tucked behind the foliage again. Draco’s fingers fly to clutch at Neville’s shoulders, pulling him in, just as needy. Neville backs into him, crushing them together. Neville’s mouth is warm and soft against his, lips slightly chapped and tongue too skilled. It slips between his lips with ease; Draco moans and lets it in. It explores his mouth and slides along the roof, along the curve of his tongue, down the jagged line of his teeth. Everything’s warm and Neville tastes vaguely like coffee. Neville kisses like a dream. He thumbs Draco’s cheek with one hand, garden-calloused fingers brushing through Draco’s platinum hair. Neville’s other hand traces down Draco’s hip, pulling him in and holding him close. Before Draco can stop himself, their hips are rubbing together—Neville groans fiercely into his mouth, rutting harder. Neville grinds Draco into the sturdy glass, and it’s cold against the back of his skull. Neville kisses him over and over, mouths working and tongues dancing, and there’s a glow in Draco’s stomach that runs all the way up to his brain, making him light headed. One of Draco’s hands trails down Neville’s back, dipping to grab and squeeze his ass. Draco doesn’t know which of their moans is louder. It’s nothing short of wonderful, and he tugs at Neville’s robes, wanting to drag him straight down to the ground. They can’t fuck against the glass—it quivers too much, and despite the spells, Draco’s always terrified he’ll break it.

When Draco tugs them down, Neville follows, and Draco’s back slips along the wall while his knees slip to either side of Neville. When he’s sitting on his ass in the dirt, he looks up at Neville with a fire in his eyes. He’s prissy. He doesn’t usually like to fuck in the dirt—that’s disgusting. He deserves good sheets and grand beds. ...But they can’t have that, and the greenhouses are Neville’s play yard, and Draco’s fallen so far that he actually _wants_ to be a part of that. Neville’s hand hasn’t left Draco’s face. He strokes Draco’s cheek gently as he leans his forehead against Draco’s. Then he murmurs softly, “I’m so sorry.”

Draco frowns. Neville was already frowning, and that doesn’t make sense. Draco doesn’t know what he’s sorry for and doesn’t really want to. Everything’s too _perfect_ when they’re together—when it’s _just_ them. The only flaw is that it might not always be that way, and if that’s what Neville’s saying, Draco... Draco doesn’t...

He scrunches his eyes closed. Neville mutters, “...I... I’ve been so distracted with school, lately. I’m sorry. I’m just not _good_ at anything, and if I don’t try really hard, I’d never even manage an ‘A’ on things, let alone an ‘E.’ But... but that’s no reason to neglect you. I’m sorry.”

Draco’s eyes stay closed. But not as tight. He didn’t at all think that was the apology he was getting. It takes some effort to be his usual self. Despite everything he feels, he finds himself sneering defensively out of habit and pride, “You’re not neglecting me; I don’t need you.” ...Because he’s a _Malfoy_ , and that’s just what that is...

Neville whispers, “I know. But I need _you_ , and I don’t want to lose you.” He shifts to cup Draco’s face, leaning in for a short, chaste kiss. Draco hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides.

Then he lunges forward, arms wrapping tightly around Neville, and he doesn’t want to say anything or to cry, so he hooks his chin over Neville’s shoulders. Neville holds him just as fiercely, rubbing his back and mumbling again, “I’m sorry. I know it’s been bothering you, even if you won’t say it. I do... I do really want to be with you, Draco. And to be honest, I don’t care who knows or who sees. ...It’s sweet of you to try and protect my future career like that, but it’s hardly necessary... I just... I just want to be with you, okay?”

When he pulls away, his hands stay around Draco, enclosed and warm. Draco nods into them, drawling before he can stop himself, “Are... what are we...?”

“Boyfriends,” Neville says, without hesitation. Then he adds, with a bit of an adorable blush, “Er, that is... if you want to be. I mean, we could just be friends with benefits, but... I... I know we don’t talk about this much, but... I’d like to think we’re more. And I want us to be serious.”

Draco sniffs while he nods. He tries to school his features into their usual indifference—tries to make it look like he doesn’t care. Like this doesn’t affect him so torrentially much as it does. He takes a deep breath and agrees, “We’re boyfriends.”

Neville grins. Before Draco can blurt out anything more, Neville steals his next thoughts. Neville mumbles calmly, leaning in to peck Draco’s cheek, “I’m serious. I want this to work out, and when we graduate, and it isn’t so easy to see each other, and I’m hopefully an Auror and you... I don’t know, but... but I want us to find a way to make this work. I know we can.”

“Even if I can’t be anything?” Draco mutters. “Even if no one will hire a man with the Dark Mark, and being with me will hold you back? We might grow apart. I’ll probably still live with my parents, and you’ll move out and succeed, and they’ll lecture me about settling down with a pureblood witch...”

“And I’ll hold you back?” Neville asks, lips quirking. Draco rolls his eyes. Neville sighs and reaches down to hold Draco’s hands, warm and steady between them. Before he can say anything, Draco lunges in again for a quick kiss, unable to miss the opportunity. Neville leisurely kisses him back, before saying quietly, “Look, it doesn’t matter. We’ll find a way. I do _want_ to be with you. And the world sucks and it’s in the way, but I know we can make this work. ...If... if you want to...”

“Of course I want to.” He closes his mouth quickly, trying to stop the tirade that wants to come out. There’s so much in him, and so much he want so say, so much he wants to ask. It doesn’t work like that, and everything’s so complicated. But Neville makes it seem simple and better, like Neville makes everything seem better. Neville squeezes his hands lightly. Draco closes his eyes. He breathes out longer than he means to, trying to come up with how to express what he feels.

When he can’t figure out a Slytherin or Malfoy enough way to say it, he just grumbles, “I love you,” and slumps forward into Neville’s arms.

Neville catches him, all strength and security. Neville’s arms wrap around him like a blanket, draping him in warmth. Neville murmurs, voice deep and sincere, “I love you, too.” And he kisses Draco’s forehead.

Draco shifts to kiss Neville’s ear. Then cheek. Then the corner of his lips, then right on the mouth, until he’s knocking Neville backwards into the dirt with the force, climbing atop him and staying attached. He says, “It’ll be okay,” and, “we’ll make it work,” in that foolish, naïve, Gryffindor way of his.

And somehow, Draco begins to believe every word.


End file.
